


Night Sky Changing Overhead (the Brighter When We Come Remix)

by roughandtumble (flammablehat)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: 2013 Camelot Remix, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Edwardian, Bathing/Washing, Boss/Employee Relationship, First Time, M/M, Master/Servant, Pining, Power Imbalance, References to Homophobia, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-29
Updated: 2013-03-29
Packaged: 2017-12-04 23:18:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flammablehat/pseuds/roughandtumble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin discovers it is one thing to want something, and another thing entirely to have the courage to say so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night Sky Changing Overhead (the Brighter When We Come Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Brighter When We Come](https://archiveofourown.org/works/626133) by [teprometo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/teprometo/pseuds/teprometo). 



> Title taken from the song "Closer" by Tegan and Sara. Many thanks to Sophinisba, Samyazaz and Kaizoku for all their encouragement and fantastic, thorough beta work. ♥ I owe much of the inspiration for the direction this story took to my dear friend Claudia aka claudewriter/i_claudia. If you have not yet experienced the glory that is her [age of sail AU](http://archiveofourown.org/series/19642) \- go, now, and bask in its magnificence.

The leather of Merlin’s saddlebags squeaked under his weight as he struggled to tug the top flap closed. It was hardly a long trek back to county Camelot, but Merlin was trimmed out well enough to withstand a gale, a sudden flood, and likely a personal interview with the four horsemen of the apocalypse besides. Hunith bustled out of her small cottage, a crusty loaf of hearth bread, three apples, a lump of cheese in waxy paper, and a length of cured venison cradled in her arms. 

“I have some food for you, Merlin,” she said. 

Merlin laughed, leaning on his straps. “Poor Torento will hardly thank me as it is.” 

“Oh, he’s a fine, sturdy horse,” Hunith said. “Fancy though he may be. And I’ll not have you going hungry on your journey.” 

“There must be at least three taverns between here and Camelot.” 

“That’s all the more reason for you to take these,” she said, circling Torento for a likely place to store provisions. Merlin stood back in mild bemusement until she huffed and bid him to hold the food so she could fashion her scarf into a serviceable sack. “There,” she said, hooking the loop of cloth over the front of his saddle. “No need for you to waste your coin or consort with disreputable folk in taverns.” She took his arms in her hands, looking up into his eyes. “Are you certain you cannot stay longer? You’ve only been away a fortnight; surely his lordship doesn’t need you back so soon?” 

“Mother,” Merlin said, dipping his head. He didn’t know how to tell her that it was his own restlessness urging him to return to Camelot, not without hurting her feelings. 

It had been good to see her. The comforts of home restored him, clearing his head with the refreshing influence of his mother's affection and his own innocent happiness. There was only one unexpected consequence to this clarity, and it offered him some insight into his own mind — he missed Arthur. He _worried_ for Arthur, though he knew George attended to his every need in Merlin’s absence. Arthur was in no danger; he’d been hale and happy when Merlin had left, clapping him on the shoulder and instructing him to give Hunith his very warmest regards. And yet, Merlin still found himself itching to take the little dirt path from his mother’s cottage to the wider highway leading out of Essetir. It was a day and a half’s journey back to Arthur’s familial lands. While Merlin was in his mother’s company he was not unhappy, but he knew he wouldn’t truly be at ease until he crossed the threshold of Pendragon House. 

“I can’t stay here forever,” he said, teasing her. 

“No,” she agreed, combing at his hair with her fingers. “Much as I might wish it. You will travel safe for me, won’t you?” 

“Of course,” he said. He leaned down to hug her, breathing in the scents of his home for a long moment. “I’ll visit again soon.” 

“Tell Lord Pendragon he is always welcome here, if he ever wishes to accompany you,” she said, pulling away and touching her eyes. Merlin tilted his head, puzzled by her offer — Arthur only ever travelled between Pendragon House and his holdings in town, why should he have occasion to detour through a tiny village like Ealdor? His mother patted his arm. “I know how much he needs you.” 

“He—” Merlin said, at a loss. After a moment, he settled with, “Of course, I will tell him.” 

“Good boy,” Hunith said. “Now go, make the most of the daylight.”

+++

It was a lovely day for a ride, bright and warm beneath a crisp blue sky. A playful breeze carried sweet hints of grass and pollen, refreshing Merlin as he and Torento trotted onward. It would be a fine day for a hunt, or a picnic if one was feeling more civilised. Merlin smiled to think of the annoyance that would pucker Arthur’s brow if he heard Merlin voicing such opinions aloud.

The stream behind Pendragon House would be chilly today. If Merlin were home, he might try to persuade Arthur for a swim. Sport and play agreed with Arthur’s disposition — he needed to use his body or risk retreating into an ill-suited solemnity. George, with his love of caretaking and order, occasionally forgot this. 

It wasn’t that Merlin was actually concerned about Arthur. He simply had an intuition for the rhythm of Arthur’s days, an intuition that guided his own behaviour. Having that rhythm disrupted was perhaps beneficial for them both, keeping them from complacency, but there was no need to fall so completely out of step that they became unfamiliar once again. Merlin would never regret meeting Arthur, but he’d be lying if he claimed their earliest days were their best. 

As it turned out, Merlin only encountered one tavern on the way back to Camelot, in a tiny town he had circumnavigated on his outbound journey. Twilight was approaching, and he slowed Torento as he passed its doors, considering. It would be nice to rent a bed for the evening. No one at the house would miss him if he lingered and took a full night’s rest. 

After a long moment, Merlin dug his heels into Torento’s sides and carried on down the road.

+++

The cobbles of Arthur’s courtyard were hard, unforgiving things. Each clop of hoof sent a ringing up Merlin’s spine, beating in his head as his horse slouched into the stables. The air smelled wet, grey with rain. Merlin slid from his saddle, catching himself on sweaty horse-flank when his numb feet took his weight for the first time in half a day. A young boy ran up and gently unwrapped the reins from Merlin’s stiff fingers, whistling for his friends, who helped unburden his tired beast of saddlebags and tack. The boy led Torento away to be curried, stalled, and fed for the evening. Listing against the stableyard door, Merlin suffered an acute pang of envy. He had half a mind to crawl under a pile of clean hay in one of the empty stalls himself.

“Merlin,” said George, appearing as if from the aether before him. “Lord Pendragon has requested you attend him in his rooms immediately.” 

A ripple chased through Merlin’s gut. How Arthur already knew of his return Merlin didn’t know, but he weathered a brief conflict between weariness and the genuine desire to see Arthur’s face before he slept again, to know he was whole and well, just as Merlin had left him. He bowed his head, squeezing his eyes shut for a long moment. 

“Of course, if you are too tired,” George offered, deferential as ever. He would make Merlin’s excuses if Merlin insisted. He would probably make Merlin’s excuses if Merlin so much as hinted. 

“Thank you, George,” Merlin said, declining the unspoken invitation to skive off for the night. “I’ll take my things to my rooms and join Arthur shortly.” 

“Please,” George said, gesturing to one of the hovering stable boys. “Lord Pendragon was quite emphatic.” 

“I’m certain he was,” Merlin said. The boy shouldered his bags and offered a quizzical look at the comment. George inhaled a disapproving breath through his nose but said nothing, waving Merlin into step behind him. 

They took a direct path through the grand foyer, making Merlin especially conscious of the drag of his soggy boots across clean, white marble. Arthur’s private chambers occupied the topmost storey of the residence. Merlin stumbled up the steps after George, who didn’t adjust his efficient clip but seemed to prefer waiting patiently for Merlin to catch up when he fell too far behind, and then repeated this cycle twice more until they finally reached the top stair. 

“I know my way from here,” Merlin said gently when George made to lead him to Arthur’s door.

“Of course,” George said, pausing and turning the aborted movement into a short nod. “If there is anything else Lord Pendragon should require?” 

“Thank you,” Merlin said, still kind but firm. He waited until George took his reluctant leave before letting himself in to Arthur’s rooms. The scent of lavender struck him first, followed closely by a cheery warmth from the freshly laid hearth. He saw that a bath had been drawn, the water still steaming and clear in Arthur’s claw-footed tub. Soft, clean flannels hung before the fire to heat through. Merlin’s throat closed around a misery of longing; he tore his eyes away from the gleaming porcelain to find Arthur seated casually behind his writing desk, gauging him with that assessing manner he had. “Shall I prepare you for your bath, my lord?” Merlin said. 

“Come.” Arthur beckoned him. His voice was deep and familiar, working in concert with Merlin’s fatigue to send another tremor through his centre. He swayed like a drunkard as he entered the room, unbalanced by the plushness of one of Arthur’s rugs beneath his feet. 

Merlin took hold of Arthur’s waistcoat in part to steady himself, in part to help his lordship undress, but Arthur carefully disengaged his hands, pressing them to his sides. Then, inexplicably, his fingers slid under the collar of Merlin’s damp jacket and pushed it from his shoulders. A weight greater than the coat fell away with it. Merlin blinked as Arthur moved on to work at the knot in his scarf. The slide of wool painted his neck in pleasant gooseflesh, cooling his skin before the heat of the fire embraced him.

“What are you doing?” Merlin said. His arms hung, uncomprehending, in the way of Arthur’s efforts to lift the hem of his shirt. 

“You’re disgusting,” Arthur said simply. 

Merlin might’ve rolled his eyes had he the energy to bother. He was quite clean, in spite of the damp. Country travel kept one away from the more noxious elements sluicing through the city streets, and naturally Arthur’s home was well away from the nearest town and its muck. It wouldn’t be the first time Arthur had gone out of his way to design an insult for Merlin. The undressing was new, however. 

“You need a bath more than I do,” Arthur added. 

Merlin stood pliant with surprise, allowing Arthur to successfully lift off his shirt. “I suppose, now that you mention it,” he said, breath stopping for the briefest moment when Arthur’s fingers skimmed his waist. He’d never realised how sensitive his belly was. He’d never noticed the callouses on Arthur’s fingers before, an uncommon roughness for a man of his status. He’d never...they’d never stood so close before, in the warmth, the growing dark outside Arthur’s windows. Merlin dropped his head back, swallowing to wet the dryness of his throat. 

Arthur’s fingers skittered at his trouser placket, clumsy over the buttons. He worked with what felt like excessive care, pausing before he skimmed the fabric down Merlin’s legs, undergarments and all. Arthur was a kind man, Merlin rationalised. He knew the distance Merlin had journeyed, and was tending to him with a friend’s gratitude. This was a gesture of reciprocity, an acknowledgment of everything Merlin did in his service. Arthur’s hands on his body were not Merlin’s to keep, just as his warmth and his closeness and his bath were not Merlin’s to keep. 

But then Arthur knelt before him, and Merlin suffered a shock of heat to his face and groin. In apparent ignorance to the effect he was having, Arthur cupped Merlin’s calf with one hand and tugged at the heel of his boot with the other. Unbalanced, Merlin caught himself on Arthur’s shoulders, heart galloping at the sudden intimacy. He chastised his own weakness, quelling the shiver climbing his spine. The wear of travel and distance had made him susceptible to his most inexcusable fantasies.

Arthur was a gentleman. Arthur was a friend. Arthur would cast him out if he knew... But then again he might not — he might be kind, he might be forgiving. Merlin had thought it all before, reserving the question of whether Arthur, still a bachelor at his age, and with so many fine prospects, might prefer to be alone. That, like Merlin, the risk of what he truly wanted might be too great to gamble the sweetness of an otherwise complete life. That, like Merlin, at night he might imagine hands on his body, a mouth over his own, familiar and fond. 

That, like Merlin, he might wonder what the weight of mutual desire _felt_ like, pressed tight to his back and breathing hot in his ear. 

Moments like these tested the mettle of a soul, for all their absurdity. For even as Merlin’s other boot came off without fuss, Arthur uttered a quiet grunt, as at a sharp pain, and caught himself upon Merlin’s naked hip for balance. Merlin almost reached for him then, biting down upon the effort it took not to sway into Arthur’s accidental hold. When Arthur finally stepped away from his side, looking flustered at his own clumsiness, Merlin felt as though the weight of a pressing stone had been removed from his chest: sore, but at least able to breathe. 

He climbed carefully into the bath, flushing with pleasure at the heat. This was a luxury he could do with more of, weightless and tended to, like nobility himself for an evening. And what an interesting inversion it might be if Arthur were _his_ dutiful servant, obliging his whims? The steam must have made him light-headed, because no sooner had the thought crossed his mind than he found himself asking, “Arthur? Will you scrub my back?” 

“Scrub it yourself,” Arthur said, tempting Merlin to smile at the affront in his tone. The danger in asking did not occur to him until he heard a chair clunk into place behind him. 

“I didn't mean it in earnest,” Merlin said, starting when Arthur’s hand dipped into the bath by his shoulder with a short length of flannel. Arthur had rolled up his sleeve, exposing the lean lines of his forearm, golden in the firelight. Merlin swallowed. 

“Yes, well,” Arthur said, squeezing out the excess bathwater. “Next time you will think twice before making such an impudent request. Now you will simply have to suffer my nanny-hardened ministrations without complaint. Lean forward.” 

Merlin did so, and of course Arthur’s touch was not rough at all, but wide and thorough, encompassing. Out of Arthur’s view, Merlin bit down on his lip hard. He listened to the dribble of water pouring from their skin, the slap of flannel when it was applied to his back, waiting for the accidental brushes of Arthur’s fingers like a dog lingering in the kitchen for fallen scraps. Arthur breathed through his nose, quiet and measured, the same way he did when he combed down his horse after a ride. 

Merlin wrestled silently with this torment until Arthur’s hand accidentally grazed his waist and all the air left him in a rush. There may have been a pause, but it was so slight Merlin couldn’t mark it. Rather than avoid this sensitive area, Arthur seemed to focus upon it, ranging back every few moments to press the shape of his palm into Merlin’s flank through the flannel. 

It felt good. It was no profound realisation, but nevertheless Merlin centred upon it, attached himself to it. He didn’t want to fight it — he could have these moments for himself, taken out of time and context, couldn’t he? Just this once, a sweet memory to savour when reality reasserted itself, as it must. He closed his eyes and lay back when Arthur moved to his arms, dutifully scrubbing from shoulder to hand, lacing his cloth-tangled fingers with Merlin’s beneath the water in scrupulous attention to his task. When Arthur tugged Merlin’s arms above the water, resting his wet knuckles upon his own thighs, Merlin opened without resistance. He shivered as the cloth swept over his wrists and caught his breath when Arthur drew it through the hair under his arms. 

Merlin almost didn’t notice when Arthur’s left hand joined his right upon his chest. When he did, he thought it must be to hold him steady for the pass of Arthur’s flannel. He mastered himself to complete stillness, worried he had begun to tremble and that he would soon give himself away. But then Arthur’s palms spread, thumbs dragging over his nipples, shocking Merlin’s eyes wide. He writhed in silence for one pass, two, each drag like the pluck of a sweet note from a violin, until the touch couldn’t be mistaken for an accident and he broke open with the realisation, a low noise escaping his control as he gripped fistfuls of Arthur’s shirt. 

Arthur looked down at him, uncomprehending, his hands tracking over Merlin’s chest and stomach and hips. His eyes, fixed upon Merlin but somehow distant, followed the path he’d drawn until they caught and held upon Merlin’s cock, raised stiff against the flat plane of his belly. Shame, excitement, horror — all flowered within Merlin simultaneously the moment Arthur came back to himself. 

They both might have recoiled in an instant, had Merlin’s fingers not brushed a telling bulge against Arthur’s thigh. Instinct gave him courage where reason would have failed him: he thumbed open Arthur’s buttons with practised speed and reached out, searching for proof he suddenly grasped in both hands. Arthur jerked sharply — in surprise? To move away? Merlin’s hold tightened in reflex, sliding down the smooth, hot skin of Arthur’s cock and winning him a startled moan. And Arthur didn’t pull away; instead, he watched Merlin, legs falling open just that smallest measure as his expression transformed into something wondering and rapt. 

“Oh, God, touch me,” Merlin begged, the plea spilling out before he could restrain himself. Against all expectation, Arthur didn’t hesitate. He circled his fingers under Merlin’s Adam’s apple in a loose hold that made lust spark at the base of his skull. With his other hand, he gave Merlin’s cock an experimental stroke. 

Merlin bucked into Arthur’s grasp, bathwater parting over the surge of his body. Arthur widened his legs around the lip of the tub, drawing in, letting Merlin tug his prick even though the angle was awkward and Merlin far from coordinated. Arthur didn’t appear to mind, his focus upon the shadow his cock threw over Merlin’s face. It made Merlin shiver to think upon the picture he made, knowing it was indecent and lewd and dangerous but savagely pleased by it all the same. He wanted to wring his satisfaction from this fever dream to the last ounce, certain that a dream was all it could be. He wasn’t allowed to touch Arthur like this. If he had only one opportunity to do so — a moment of carnal curiosity Arthur was willing to entertain — he would leave the memory of his fingerprints on every stretch of skin Arthur gave him. He wanted to press his face into Arthur’s groin, to drag him down across the bath and lavish his cock in kisses, write the taste of him onto his tongue. He would happily drown in Arthur’s pleasure if only Arthur would let him. 

For his part, Arthur touched him like he was trying to keep pace, his lips parted around quiet, rapid breaths, his eyes wide. His shirtsleeves were soaked almost to the shoulder, a product of either Merlin’s squirming making waves in the bathwater or Arthur’s own heedless stretch down Merlin’s body. The fabric hung from his arms like fine, translucent wings in the firelight, as captivating as the muscles moving beneath Arthur’s skin. 

Merlin’s heart _hurt_ to look at him. 

He tightened his grip, shuttling his wet hand up and down Arthur’s shaft at a brutal pace, thrilling in how hard Arthur was under his touch. Merlin had a sense Arthur was close when his rhythm faltered, his hand stilling in favour of watching Merlin’s fingers, his panting mouth. 

“Come on,” Merlin urged, grasping the edge of the bath with his free hand to help lift himself that little bit in the water. “Arthur, come for me.” 

Arthur cupped his cheek, making Merlin shudder, rendered helpless by the gesture. Overcome, Merlin turned his face into Arthur’s hand and drew his thumb into his mouth, moaning at the flavour of his skin. Arthur made a startled noise, and he pressed against Merlin’s tongue, his teeth, cursing when Merlin sucked him down to the heel of his palm. He stiffened, voicing a wavery breath, but Merlin caught him before he could pull away, fingers digging into the meat of his hip. “I want it,” he said, breathless, dragging his mouth across Arthur’s wrist. “I _want_ it,” he pleaded again, willing Arthur to hear what he couldn't quite bring himself to say: that he wanted Arthur so hot and tight with sinful pleasure he spilled, helpless, all over Merlin's skin. 

They had always shared a strange kenning between them, and Merlin saw the moment comprehension touched Arthur's eyes. 

Arthur caught his breath, bowing over like he’d been punched. Heat spattered across Merlin’s face, sliding down the bridge of his nose, collecting in the dip of his chin. Merlin licked a hot stripe of it from his upper lip, stomach somersaulting at the burst of salt, the texture — Arthur’s come in his mouth. For a brief moment, he stood in real danger of passing out. 

Arthur groaned as if he couldn’t quite help himself, his hand shaking as he painted Merlin’s lips with the thickness of his spend. Merlin licked at his fingers, chasing the taste of him down to the wells between his knuckles and murmuring hungry satisfaction. 

They both panted into the silence following this tumult, until they’d largely recovered themselves and quiet slowly overtook them. The urgency had drained from the moment, leaving Merlin pliant like a drowsy pet, content to let his master touch him. His idle drifting was broken by the small splash Arthur’s hand made in the cooling bathwater as he rewetted the flannel and gently wiped Merlin’s face. 

Merlin sighed, trying to preserve the new, treasured feeling of stillness that was already beginning to leach away from him. Here, now, came a fresh crossroads to brave. He kept his eyes closed even after Arthur had withdrawn his cloth, suppressing a wince at the sound of his chair skidding back from the tub. 

He spluttered as Arthur hauled him to his feet, catching his balance on the arms of Arthur’s chair as he was sat down without ceremony. Water cascaded off his body, drenching the fine velvet cushion and a goodly portion of the rug. 

Merlin watched Arthur circle in front of him, nearly as wet as Merlin was himself. His shirt clung to his chest and his trousers gaped in the most debauched display Merlin had ever seen from him. He sank to his knees, holding Merlin’s gaze as he very carefully placed his hands upon Merlin’s thighs. He then pressed Merlin’s legs wide enough to admit him between them, and after a pause pressed a little further still. Merlin caught his breath at the pull through his groin, more exposed than he had ever felt before in his life. He anchored himself with both hands at the dry collar of Arthur’s shirt, breathing rapidly through his nose as Arthur leaned in to suck the water dripping down the crease of his thigh. 

Merlin’s body made the battleground between a growing chill from the damp and the heat where Arthur touched him. He was mortified by his own arousal, but desperate to see Arthur do what he seemed quite close to doing. The drag of his mouth skidded soft and thrilling over Merlin’s skin. 

Arthur sat back on his heels, tonguing the water from his bottom lip, catching Merlin’s eyes. Then he watched, almost curious, as he licked a careful stripe over the tip of Merlin’s cock. Merlin could hardly believe it, uttering a stricken sound at the sight. His shock muffled the sweet pleasure of the touch. 

With an inquisitive air, Arthur sank forward and captured Merlin’s prick in his mouth, sucking tentatively. Paralysed by the rush of sensation, Merlin’s lips parted around a helpless moan. His feet kneaded at Arthur’s thighs, redistributing his frenetic, nervous outpouring of energy. Merlin wanted desperately to cradle Arthur’s head tight to his groin, to implore him to never stop, each second expecting Arthur to come to his bloody senses and reel back with the regretful disgust of a man who has tried to be reciprocal and found that he could not. It was one thing, after all, to accept pleasure from a willing volunteer, and Merlin would have thanked him for that alone. He’d never expected turnabout, and half-braced himself to apologise for not making that abundantly clear the moment Arthur pushed him away. 

But then the unimaginable happened. Arthur _didn’t_ push him away. He continued to _not_ recoil, but instead held tighter. His fingers combed ardent, clutching lines down Merlin’s legs. His eyelids swept closed and he sank deeper into Merlin’s lap, sucking firmly. Merlin nearly collapsed out of his seat — might have done if Arthur were not there, holding him steady for his own indulgence. 

“Arthur,” Merlin bit out, reduced in that moment to nothing more than his name. “Ah-Arthur!” He hardly knew what to do with himself, noticing for the first time the blood beating in his ears and the rapid draw of his lungs. Arthur shuffled closer, breathing rough, covetous sounds against Merlin’s skin. Merlin’s feet slipped from Arthur’s legs, his calves clamping around Arthur’s ribs for a long second before another invisible boundary shook free and he gave in to the instinct to lock his heels behind Arthur’s back, cupping him tighter. In apparent approval, Arthur hollowed his cheeks, and Merlin had to bury his fingers in Arthur’s hair, gasping wordless praise. 

Merlin had never known a body could feel so much, churning with greedy desire and adoration and the gut-tugging fear that accompanies a fall. Arthur seemed voracious for him, his grip growing more demanding at Merlin’s thighs, his mouth hot and insistent. If this was a battle for ground, Merlin was swiftly preparing to lose. “Arthur,” he said, voice splitting over the thought that Arthur wouldn’t pull away in time — the hope that he wouldn’t pull away at all. “ _Arthur_ ,” he said again, higher, writhing up against Arthur’s hold. 

Arthur caught him, both strong hands sliding up his sides to keep him still, hugged close while he pressed and stroked at the underside of Merlin’s cock with his tongue. Merlin shouted, head knocking back against Arthur’s chair, his hands and knees and body clenching around Arthur in one ecstatic surge. 

He sobbed in a breath when he reclaimed enough presence of mind to do so, opening his eyes to find Arthur looking up at him with the heavy-lidded, glittering gaze of a jungle cat. Arthur released him with a last, gentle flicker of his tongue, making Merlin shudder. His legs, protesting from long hours of riding and holding such a rigid pose, abruptly loosened, his heels settling on the floor to either side of Arthur’s calves. And just like an affectionate cat, Arthur pressed his face into Merlin’s thigh. Though he was damp and the air was beginning to cool with the dwindling fire, Merlin ran thoughtless fingers through Arthur’s hair, feeling loose and warmed through. 

His thoughts drifted, and for a rare moment he was content to do nothing, enjoying the weight of Arthur’s head in his lap, his easy closeness and the simple, animal satisfaction of touch. His heart clenched for the briefest second when Arthur stood, but exhaustion made for an effective soporific and he calmed when it became clear Arthur was only going to retrieve a nightshirt from his wardrobe. Merlin even grinned when Arthur guided the collar down over his head, amused to be dressed by his lordship. Arthur helped Merlin to his feet, his mouth tilting with wry acknowledgement. 

Merlin did not think to question it when he was led to Arthur’s bed, only submitted to the guidance of his hands and crawled beneath the covers. He meant to ask if Arthur would stay, but before he could put words to the thought his head sank into one of Arthur’s cloud-like pillows, already asleep.

+++

Merlin didn’t startle awake, but rather stretched into easy awareness. He felt unusually rested, blinking through the diffuse light of a grey morning, listening to the half-hearted patter of rain against the window, plucking idly at the smooth hair on the arm thrown around his chest.

Merlin froze.

He jerked around, coming face to face with Arthur — Arthur whose arm he’d been stroking, Arthur whose nightshirt he wore, who was looking at him now, soft-eyed with sleep and a little confusion. 

“Ah—” Merlin said, freezing again as the previous evening chose that moment to unspool, second by glorious second, in his memory. He swallowed, flushing to the tips of his ears. 

“Are you well, Merlin?” Arthur said, voice a little rough and chest very bare. 

“I...” he said, shutting his eyes as Arthur stretched and the pull of linen across his lap drew a vivid picture that satisfied any idle curiosity Merlin may have had as to his state of dress below the bedsheets. “I find myself in danger of acting the fool,” he began. 

“Is that meant to alarm me?” Arthur smiled. 

Were he upright, in his jacket and waistcoat and poorly finished bowtie, Merlin might have ribbed Arthur in kind as too obtuse to suffer alarm, but instead he faltered, uncertain. “Would you like me to collect your breakfast...my lord?” he said, after a pause that lasted several seconds too long. He wasn’t certain what else he should say, but the moment the words left his mouth he regretted them.

Arthur’s smile dimmed. He dropped his eyes, worrying at the edge of his sheet. “Of course,” he said, and when he lifted his gaze again there were several layers of cool authority between them, fitted around him as neatly as full plate armour. “I shouldn’t keep you.” 

The sting of this dismissal shocked Merlin. He wavered, sliding back in the bed, toward the edge and away from Arthur. The space between them was all wrong with closeness and heat, into which words shattered like falling icicles. 

This would be it, then. One unexpected, felicitous collision, and an uncomfortable knowledge linking them every day forward. Stricken with welling disappointment, it occurred to Merlin that he could have survived the pain of failure, knowing he’d taken one moment for himself, an instant of pure honesty. But he hadn’t been perfectly honest, had he? While rejection might not actually kill him, he didn’t savour the risk, and he could admit that he may have been waiting for some sign, some surety that Arthur wouldn’t hate him for his love. 

But the thought was ridiculous. Arthur didn’t make declarations, not to anyone. Arthur revealed himself in his actions; a bracing squeeze of his hand, a solemn nod. It was in Arthur’s nature to use his body— 

Merlin stopped. 

He felt the soft cotton of Arthur’s nightshirt slide down his arm as he dropped his palm to Arthur’s bed. He glanced over at Arthur’s abandoned bath, full of cool water he had not used. Merlin remembered that Arthur had let himself be touched — remembered Arthur touching him. He closed his eyes, steadying himself against the wave cresting in his chest. He couldn’t put a name to the feeling, but he thought it might be bravery.

It was a simple matter, then, to draw close again and take Arthur’s wrist in his hand. “I am yours to keep, for as long as you’ll have me,” Merlin said. Arthur’s eyes widened, his lips parting on a quiet inhale. In that moment, it felt only natural that Merlin should lean forward and fit his mouth to Arthur’s, his heart vibrating at the whisper of breath over his skin before he remembered himself and pulled away. 

He had extricated himself from the bedsheets, his nerves steeled to collect his trousers with what remained of his dignity, when Arthur cleared his throat behind him. 

“Merlin,” he said. 

Merlin turned. 

“Breakfast can wait.” And he smiled faintly, holding out his hand.

**Author's Note:**

> Dearest teprometo, I do hope you enjoy(ed) your remix. I wanted to filter the deliciousness of your original fic through a very slightly altered power and social dynamic, hence the era change. It was an absolute blast to write; thank you so much for providing so many passionate, sexy, intelligent fics to choose from. ♥ ♥ ♥

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Night Sky Changing Overhead](https://archiveofourown.org/works/967459) by [teprometo (te_prometo)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/te_prometo/pseuds/teprometo)




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